


If You Closed the Door, I'd Never Have To See the Day Again

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Infatuation, Oswald's type is anyone who's ever paid him even the littlest bit of attention, Other, Sexual Fantasy, Wet Dream, drunken romantic fancies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 08:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3243455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the party's over...</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Closed the Door, I'd Never Have To See the Day Again

**Author's Note:**

> Someday, I will write something in this fandom that has nothing to do with Oswald Cobblepot and his inappropriate romantic attachments- but that day is not today!  
> The title comes from the song After Hours, by the Velvet Underground. I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. Thank you, and good night.

It's funny, the things that come to you when you're looking at death. And Oswald is sure that he's looking at death. Which has taken the form of a hand-made lady's shoe. As he brings down his lips, to let them rest on the leather, he can't but flinch: will he be kicked? He is, but not by Fish; by his own body, his poor knees and his back and his swirling drunken head. He puts out his tongue, runs the point over the grain, breathes in the cold scent of leather and wood. It's so funny, that what comes to him in what must be his final moments is Jim Gordon. And this strange effervescence, rising through his body. Is he going to be sick?  
He thinks he might. When the shooting starts, and it all gets so messy. Not the kind of messy he likes. It's loud, and there are people running and shouting. That's funny, too. He laughs so hard, he laughs himself right out of the scene. When he finds himself again, he's hiding behind the cake- which it shortly occurs to him is ridiculous. It won't stop a bullet. At least, though, no one can see him. Somehow, that's become the most important thing.  
But then, everyone's gone, and it's quiet again, and he hurts so much, but it's far away, muffled as though by many blankets. He holds himself, and he rocks back and forth a little, lets the tension drip down through him- And, there, it's gone. He smiles, feels his mouth form a sloppy curve. He moves himself again. The floor is hard and cold, but he's warm and soft, so he lets himself come down gently onto it; draws his knees up, puts his hands under his chin. Someone will find him, eventually. For good or ill.  
No, for good. It'll always be good for him. No harm will befall him. His mother's always told him so. It might be annoying, how right she always is, but she is always right about these things. He rocks himself again.  
“That's nice,” he whispers.  
And he sleeps. Does he? It's a peculiar sort of sleep. He's aware of being asleep; he doesn't fall into it, so much as it settles over him like snow that falls overnight, over houses and cars. He's dreaming. He dreams of a hard floor; once cold but warming under his body. He dreams of pain, but it's far away; it belongs to someone else. He dreams of Jim Gordon, and thinks of how strange it was, to think of him earlier, when he should have been thinking about his mother, or his life, or what he did to end up where he had. The alcohol spreads over him, like another person's breath, patting hot over his skin, making his fingertips and his lips pulse with his heartbeat.   
It was nice to see Jim.   
Does Oswald smile, in his sleep? Maybe.  
It was nice to see Jim. He's so solid, and he's so strong. And Jim is so good, and so righteous; he all but shines with goodness. And Oswald is not shining. Oswald is either the dark of turned earth, or the pale of the things that live under rocks, but Jim-  
Is golden. Not just his hair. His whole being. He shines like his shield. Like his shield would catch the rays of the sun. So bright that it hurts.  
But Jim's eyes are blue. Just like Oswald's.  
It hurts, now, in Oswald's shoulder, and his knees, and his back. Also, somewhere down in his chest. No, lower- in his belly. Low in his belly. And it's terrible.  
It's not supposed to be this way. He's not supposed to feel like this. But he's always been easily hurt. And he's always let his heart guide him. And he's always let his heart hurt him.  
What was he dreaming of?  
Jim was so close. Oswald can't remember the last time he was so close to someone.  
Well, there's his mother. But she doesn't count.  
And there's Fish. That was different, though. That memory makes him feel-  
Does he murmur something, in his sleep?  
It makes him feel- how to describe it? There's the same pain, but it's different... It doesn't make him soft. No, he feels like his insides are lined with broken glass: he's rough, edgy, spiky. It's fitful and weird, but somehow, easier to live with. It makes him want to- he doesn't know. He doesn't know.  
Even with the pain, that he felt when he was on his knees before her- before Her!- he could have stayed down there forever. Moved up her foot to her ankle, her calf. If he could have, he would have raised himself up, dragged his mouth all the way up to-  
What?  
But he would have. If she'd told him to. If someone's holding a gun on you, even if you don't actually see it, even if you only know that it's there, there's no shame. You do whatever you have to do.  
And the gun. He feels himself quiver, wakes briefly, to the emptiness and the quiet, and then, feeling no one around, slips back down into-  
The gun. There was a man. And maybe, if they'd had enough time, the man would have-  
Would have what?  
In his sleep, does he frown?  
But then, Jim Gordon would come back. Maybe he forgot something. Maybe- Maybe he was worried. Maybe. Does it matter?   
Not at all.  
Jim comes back, and, and- he chases away Fish and her friend- but, oh!, they could always come back- they will, one day, and that's for Oswald to worry about later. Jim comes back, and he chases away Oswald's tormentors. And then, he picks Oswald up- gently- no, not gently. He drags Oswald up, by his aching shoulder and his immobile lower body, and then he drapes Oswald over a table like an old overcoat, like Oswald is nothing. Oswald sits up, draws himself up onto his poor elbows, and Jim demands:  
“Are you all right?”  
“The better for seeing you,” Oswald giggles.  
“What did they do to you?”  
And then, Oswald has to tell him. Every terrible thing, and Jim is, is disgusted, but also. Also saddened? Is that the word? That someone would do these things to Oswald. That anybody else would touch Oswald. Dare touch him...  
“You're fine,” Jim would say dismissively, give Oswald's face a little slap- and he likes that.  
Who does?  
Both of them do. Jim likes doing it, because he's putting his touch back on Oswald, knocking off all of the other touches left on him. And Oswald likes it  
Oswald likes it because Jim is touching him. Wants to touch him. Wants to touch him like this. Rough, rough enough to push it in, all the way down into Oswald's skin, igniting his nerves, but still gently. Not hard enough to bruise. Jim wouldn't do that.  
But if he did-  
Oswald imagines Jim leaving a bruise. Imagines him leaving something of himself behind-  
Something for Oswald to keep, to look at when he's alone. That would be good. It would be like Oswald wasn't alone, at all. It would be like Jim was with him.  
And, oh, Jim-  
Oswald sighs, in his sleep.  
That big, strong man- and doesn't he feel like an old time heroine to think it- but someone who is big and strong- it's so good. In his dream, Jim takes him by the wrists, pushes him against a wall- there is always a wall, in his dreams- and kisses him. Oswald is surprised. Oswald is shocked. Oswald gasps- only to have his mouth covered anew by Jim's. Oswald hasn't been kissed very many times, so it's strange. He doesn't know what to do, so he lets Jim move him, lets Jim take what he wants.  
“Mmm,” he hums. He hears himself. Wakes up, a little more sober; frowns, and pushes himself back down into sleep.  
He's being kissed, long and deep, and it's-  
It's like nothing else. He doesn't want it to end. Let it go on forever. Please...  
But it can't.   
Does he moan in his sleep? You know he does.  
Consciousness finds him with his face against the floor. The rest of him, too. His heart is racing, and there's a peculiar wetness down the front of his pants.  
Oh, dear.  
Thankfully, he's still drunk. So, it's easy. To let himself fall fully to the floor- his face, and his shoulders, and his belly, and his hips, and his poor, poor legs.  
“Mmm,” he says, then breathes in and out, pulls himself up. It wouldn't do for someone to find him like this. No, not at all.  
“Not at all,” he mutters, then slowly rises, kneels, gets to his feet, and staggers off to find a bathroom.


End file.
